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Chapter Two

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Edward awoke in the cold with a start. He was lying on his bed in the dark, buck naked (i). His wrists were secured to the bars of his headboard with bandages. He tugged at them but they only grew tighter.

"Nurse?" he called loudly, his heart hammering.

"Hush! Ye'll wake them all up." He realized Isobel had been sitting in a rocking chair at the foot of his bed, with his heavy wool coat across her lap. She set it aside, perched on the edge of his bed as though his nakedness was nothing, and began to loosen his bonds.

"What time is it?" he whispered.

"Half past two. Ye never stop making trouble, dearie. Ye were scratching in your sleep." She sounded so tired.

"I konked out (ii), didn't I?"

"Yes. It was a blessing." She took his hand into her lap and rubbed his wrist with her thumbs. He moved his other hand down to cover himself. She prevented him. "Ye maun not touch yerself, or cover up."

"But—"

"Yer injuries are coated in medicated paraffin. As long as it stays on, it'll keep out the germs."

"Can't I have something for modesty? A bit of gauze, even?"

"No. I'm sorry. But you're a brave soul, ye'll live."

"But it's cold."

She pulled something out of her skirt pocket and smiled at him. She took his hand and stuffed it into the object. "In a couple of days, you can have the pyjamas."

His eyes widened. "A couple of days?"

"Hush!"

He sagged, blowing out his breath. "What are you doing to me, woman?"

"Ye cannae scratch."

"Mittens? Like an infant?"

"I wouldnae give up my silk stockings for just anyone, Mr. Masen."

He tucked his chin. "Thank you."

"Ye're welcome. Where in Canada are you from? Sometimes, I think ye have a bit of an Irish brogue."

"Ah, here and there. My family came from Irish stock. Besides, I'm probably picking up on yours."

"Bit of a minah?"

"Aye."

Devil. "We don't say aye. Tis nae for the educated." She released his mitten-clad hand. "I have something better for you than mittens."

"Oh?"

She held up his mess kit and spoon. "Hot bully beef." (iii)

︻┳═一

Isobel sat with Edward the next two nights after her shift, her needle passing in and out of his jacket, and told him stories about her childhood in the Highlands. Her father had been a crofter with a small flock of sheep. He'd passed away due to a weak heart when she was fifteen, and her mam, Rennie, had sent her to live in London with a maiden aunt.

Edward anticipated her nightly arrival eagerly. There were an average of 300 nurses at the hospital and 400 injured at times when the fighting wasn't thick. When it was bad, she said, there could be as many as 1200 men in the chateau. (iv) She wouldn't have time to spend with him then, so he treasured every moment.

Matron stopped by to check the patient in the next bed. "Nurse, as long as you're here, will you check this man periodically? I don't like the look of him."

"Yes, Matron, of course."

Rose White repressed a smile as Private Masen avoided looking at her. Evidently, he had adjusted to having Isobel around but was still appalled to be laid out in front of other women like a suckling pig on a platter. She was tempted to offer him an apple. "And how are you, Private?"

He cleared his throat softly. "I'm fine, ma'am. A bit cold."

The matron held out her lantern and bent over to inspect him. She was entertained when he moved to cover himself with his mitten-clad hands. She grunted in disapproval and he turned red but placed his hands at his sides.

"Much better, private Private. Will you roll over for me, please?"

He turned immediately onto his stomach and she shone her lantern down on his back. "Excellent. Nurse, if there is a nightshirt available, this man may have it."

A sweet smile transformed Edward's face. He looked the matron straight in the eye. "Thank you, Matron!"

She shook her head lightly as Isobel hurried off. The PBI was healing and would soon return to the front so the Huns could lob potato mashers (v) at him. She trusted Isobel, so she didn't call a halt to the special attention she was paying the young man. However, she considered it prudent to cover up his person before he got any healthier.

︻┳═一

By the time Isobel returned with a dingy white nightshirt and an abandoned pair of shabby slippers, Edward was cheerfully tucked up under his covers. He pushed up on his elbows. When Isobel gathered up the cloth of the nightshirt and pulled it down over his head, he fed his arms through the sleeves and laughed under his breath.

"This looks like something my granny would have worn." Peeping at her coyly, he tucked the skirt under his covers.

Isobel flattened out the old-fashioned collar. "Tis nae haute couture, for certain, but it's serviceable." She forbade herself to think how much she would miss watching him sleep unclothed.

"Yes."

She shook her head to clear it. "I'd best be going to my quarters. Morning comes early."

He turned back his covers and swung his feet to the floor. He had lovely feet. Slender and long. She watched him put on the slippers, realized she was staring and gave herself a shake.

"What are ye doing, Eddie?"

"Walking you out."

Her quarters were in the attic but she wasn't about to tell him that. "Oh. Ye don't need to…"

"Please." He moved to take her elbow but she twitched it away.

"Ye maun not touch me. The matron will put a stop to it."

"I have seen you walking with many a man."

She avoided looking at him. "That's different. They would fall without my support."

He tucked his hand into the crook of her arm. "I will fall without your support."

Her protest died in her throat. The word fall should never pass his lips. He would go back to the front. He could go at any time and come back in pieces. She couldn't bear the thought of him falling. His hand was warm on her sleeve. His fingertips touched when they encircled her arm. She stepped into the aisle and he kept pace with her. Nobody paid them any heed.

They walked to the front entrance of the hospital, avoiding those being brought in off the train. She turned shyly to look up at him. He was so tall for his age. Would he grow more? "Go back to bed now, before ye catch your death."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Will you get into trouble if you take off your veil?"

"Yes!" He looked so abashed for asking something personal that she bit her lip. She whispered, "Good night."

His eyes were so green. He brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "Good night, Isobel."

She picked up her skirts and fled.

Edward watched her go. Then he headed for his cot, lost in thought. Someone nudged his arm.

"Fine looking girl, that nurse."

The blue-eyed, freckled Irishman beside Eddie had his arm in a sling. He smiled amiably. "Shame she's married to Jesus."

Edward felt his forehead crease. "She's a Sister Nurse, not a nun."

"You mean they're up for grabs?"

"No!"

The soldier held his hands up in surrender. "I'm not gonna poach your girl, Johnny. No need to—"

"She's not mine."

"To be sure, she isn't!"

Edward folded his arms and scowled. "Look, Tommy (vi), she's a good girl. I don't want to get her in trouble. The nurses aren't even allowed to tell us their names, never mind court us."

The soldier rolled his eyes. "Why do you call us Tommies?"

"Why do you call us Tommy or Johnny Canucks?"

"Ah, you're just the diminutive form of the British."

Edward laughed despite himself. The soldier stuck out his left hand. "Michael Newton, grenadier."

Edward shook it awkwardly. "Edward Masen, PBI."

"Pleased to meet ya, foot-slogger." (vii)

"Likewise."

"When you getting out?"

"I don't know. A few days…"

"I can't wait to go to Blighty!"

"Ah, no." Edward shook his head. "I'm going back to the front."

Newton stopped smiling. "Sorry, PBI."

"Why?"

"Well." Newton lifted his sling-encased arm and Edward realized that there was no hand sticking out of it. "I suggest you don't get yourself blown up, okay? It's not as pleasant as the Krauts claim."

︻┳═一

Rustles and chitters woke Edward from a bad dream. He blinked blearily and the man in the next bed slowly came into focus. Something moved on his chest. Somethings. There was a strange sound. Clicking.

"Nurse!" Edward bellowed. "Nurse!"

One of the yeoman nurses of the Red Cross came running. "What's the matter with you? Men are trying to sleep!"

Edward pointed shakily at the man next to him. "Trench rabbits!" (viii)

The yeoman spun to look at the man and fainted dead away.

︻┳═一

"I hear ye had some excitement last night," Isobel said as she inspected his rash.

"Too much." Edward had barely slept after seeing the rats gnawing away at the man's face and chest. Had Edward not stirred, there might have been nothing but bones left of the poor bastard by morning. The yeoman he'd summoned had concussed herself when she hit the floor and was tucked up somewhere in her own bed.

Isobel covered Edward up and gave his hand a squeeze. "Dinna worry. He was dead before they got to him."

"I'm not worried."

"Of course not."

"There are tons of rabbits in the trenches."

"Yes. I know."

"I just didn't expect them to be here."

"It's a good hospital. What we need is a feisty terrier."

"The men would spoil it rotten."

"Do ye like dogs?"

"Yes."

"Have ye got one?"

"No, but I'll have one someday."

"It's the one thing I miss about Scotland. The wee black terriers. I'd like one of those."

"Are you going back after the war?"

"My mam keeps asking but all she has is the little croft and sheep. It's not even big enough for a family."

He rolled his eyes. "You won't be going back there, then."

Her heart did a flip. "What?"

"Nothing."

"What will ye do when you get out? Have ye got work?"

Edward grimaced. "Yes, but it isn't something to which I wish to return. I'll be in a band, maybe."

"A band? Music?"

He waved his hand dismissively. "I play the piano. My mother thought I should pursue a classical career but the old music is so stodgy."

"Debussy isn't stodgy."

His eyes lit up. "Ah, no. Debussy's music is wonderful. I tried to get my parents to listen to it, but they won't listen to anything from the Twentieth Century."

"Whose music do ye like?"

He tucked his hand under the pillow. "Irving Berlin. Jerome Kern. Gilbert and Sullivan."

"Oh, the popular music! Do ye like Ragtime, then?"

"Yes, I love it. You don't subscribe to the theory that Alexander's Ragtime Band promotes criminal insanity?" (ix)

"How could such delightful music possibly do that?"

Edward's jaw dropped. "You like it? Really?"

"I do! Irving Berlin is my favourite."

"Ah, he writes some wonderful love songs."

"What's your favourite?"

He rolled his eyes. "You'll think I'm a sap." ( x)

"I doubt it. Which one?"

"God Gave You to Me." ( xi)

"I don't know that one. Can ye sing it?"

"Well…" He turned pink.

"Oh, come on, please?"

"Well, all right." He wet his lips and looked at her somewhat nervously. "For every care there's an angel who makes the care seem small. For every prayer there's an answer for One who answers all."

In the ward, conversations ceased. Members of the staff slowed their steps to listen.

"The flowers prayed for sunshine so God gave the flowers the sun. The birds prayed to be merry so God gave a song to each one.

"The trees prayed for the springtime so God gave the spring to each tree. My lonely heart prayed for someone so God gave you to me."

Isobel looked at the floor. In a month, he wouldn't remember her. But his fingers slipped into hers anyway and she let them remain.

"For every heart there is gladness when eyes are wet with tears. For every care there's an answer from One who always hears."

Matron White stepped into the doorway and gawped at the PBI making love to her nurse in the middle of the ward in the middle of the morning (and nearly had a conniption).

"The trees prayed for the springtime so God gave the spring to each tree. My lonely heart prayed for someone so God gave you to me."

Matron had to admit that he had a lovely baritone. However, her Senior Nurse was about to burst into tears in front of the whole blasted allied army. "Nurse Swan!"

Isobel jumped a mile. She hid her hands behind her back with the guilty air of a child caught stealing sweets. Matron flicked her skirts and marched to the foot of the PBI's bed.

"I am growing concerned about the stores of cannabis, (xii) cocaine (xiii) and codeine.(xiv) They seem to be disappearing at an alarming rate and I suspect someone is pilfering them. Kindly perform a full inventory of our stock." She held out her keys.

Isobel ducked her head and took them. "Yes, ma'am." Her heels clicked on the floorboards as she marched out, every eye following her.

The matron fixed a steely glare on the private Private, whose actions were no longer remaining sufficiently private! He didn't look the least bit contrite. "Follow me!"

"Yes, ma'am." She took him to the large examining room where she'd met him on his first day.

"What have you to say for yourself, Tommy Canuck?"

He stood at ease, barefoot, in a nightshirt. The soldier was either foolish or admirably brave. "Permission to speak freely, sir?" He shook his head to clear it. "Ma'am?"

"Granted."

"I'm going to marry your Senior Nurse, ma'am."

Rosalie White opened her mouth but nothing came out but a squeak. The PBI still looked supremely collected, as though they were only discussing the merits of strong black tea. "What do you mean, Private? Has Bella accepted your proposal?"

He shifted on his feet. "No, ma'am. She would be looney to accept a proposal from me at this time, ma'am. That does not negate the fact that I am going to marry her."

She huffed a laugh, but he didn't so much as twitch. The Poor Bloody Infantryman was sincere. She clasped her hands and slowly shook her head. "PBI Masen, are you aware how many proposals my nurses hear a day?"

"I am sure your angels of mercy hear quite a few. Has Isobel ever taken interest in a patient before, as far as you know, ma'am?"

She took a step closer to him. "No. She has never even broken the rules by telling a soldier her name. And that is why I am warning you not to take liberties with her. I will not permit anyone to harm her, and she blatantly favours you."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You are likely going to be sent back to the front in a few days and she will be left here alone. Should you be fortunate enough to court Isobel, keep your courtship private, Private. There are men here who watch to discover which women are loose."

He blanched. "I am sorry, ma'am. I never thought…"

She shook her head. "You may find yourself fighting more than one battle, PBI. Try not to get yourself blown up, won't you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

She gestured at him. "I think it's time for you to contribute to the war effort again."

His forehead creased. "Are you sending me back already, ma'am? I thought you said the infection—"

She silenced him with a gesture. "I have found that music soothes the savage breast, do you not agree?"

His eyes flickered. "Yes."

"This hospital used to be a grand chateau. Upstairs, in storage, is a ridiculously gaudy grand piano."

"Ma'am?"

"It's pink. Someone painted cartoon lovers all over it. For all we know, this was a brothel."

Edward tried and failed to repress a smile. Rosalie sniffed and flicked her hand dismissively.

"I am going to ask Colonel Cullen if you may have permission to play it for the men."

"Ma'am, although I expect I would greatly enjoy that duty, I must point out that the Brass may not approve of the piano, or of the music I can play by heart. Most of it is Ragtime. Almost all of it comes from Tin Pan Alley."

"Is it cheerful music, soldier?"

"Mostly, ma'am. Some of it is sentimental."

"Maudlin?"

"Some might say so."

"I shall discuss it with the commanding officer. Meanwhile, PBI, you will ask one of the yeomen for paper, envelopes and pens, and write letters for some of the lads who have no strength or eyes to do it for themselves."

"Yes, ma'am!"

︻┳═一

Isobel, meanwhile, scratched marks into her ledger and notebook and swiped tears from her cheeks. How bloody stupid to allow herself to become attached to a soldier whom she would likely never see again! She had spent less time with other patients in order to sit with him and soon, he would be gone. Although it would kill her to do it, she would ask one of the other nurses to swap patients. She wouldn't see him again.

A knock came upon the dispensary door. It was not the proper knock. She hunched, corset ribs creaking, then relaxed. Nobody could get in; only Rosalie and the doctors had keys. A few minutes later, the proper knock came. She tiptoed to the door and rapped out the proper response. Again, the caller gave the proper knock. Isobel unlocked the door. Rosie probably wanted to put a flea in her ear; she had certainly been kind not to rebuke Isobel in front of the ward.

Isobel found herself face to face with the mouth of a gun. She felt the colour drain from her face. Her ledger, notebook and pen fluttered to the floor.

An enormous man in a French uniform stepped forward and she stepped backward. He pushed the door shut without looking.

"Écoute-moi. Donne-moi tout de l'opium, de la cocaïne et de l'héroïne." ( xv)

She gulped. He could not afford to leave her alive. She thought of Edward and her throat closed up. Mechanically, she walked to the shelves and began to collect bottles and put them in a sack.

"Dépêche-toi, cherie."( xvi)

She put in the last of it, and held out the sack. He snatched it from her, set it down against the door, and stepped toward her. She refused to back away. He put the gun to her forehead and she closed her eyes. His excited breaths bathed her cheeks and turned her stomach.

He spun her around and pushed her down. She screamed and tried to crawl away but he held her down by her hair, put his weight on her and lifted her skirts.

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i Buck naked: Completely naked. Condescendingly applied in the US to Natives and Black slaves. To the historically aware speaker, "buck naked" conjures up stereotypical images of naked "savages" or—worse—slaves labouring naked on plantations. Consider using the alternative expression "stark naked."

ii Konk out: pass out, die, quit

iii Bully beef: tinned beef with gravy

iv The then-unprecedented mass casualties in World War I (1914–1919), with horrific wounds from machine guns and shell fragments, and the effects of poison gas, created terrific strains on British and French medical units. The advent of motorized transport helped make possible the establishment of British Casualty Clearing Stations (CCS) approximately 6 to 9 miles behind the front lines, where makeshift hospitals were established in trenches. The CCS were advanced surgical units, staffed by surgeons, anesthetists, and nurses—the closest women had gotten to the front lines in a modern conflict [41]. The stations were designed to admit between 150 and 400 wounded at a time, but they often were overwhelmed with 1000 or more patients. Triage occurred here. Then, the wounded were either treated or sent by train or ambulance to formal hospitals (which might have been a commandeered mansion or hotel). From there, men would either return to duty or be evacuated to Britain via ships.

v Potato masher: a stick bomb shaped like a potato masher that was used by the Germans. It was thrown like a grenade.

vi Tommy: a soldier from Great Britain

vii Foot-slogger: someone who marches. An army soldier.

viii Trench rabbits: rats.

ix "Alexander's Ragtime Band" is a song by Irving Berlin. It was his first major hit, in 1911. Not everyone was a fan. I couldn't find the provenance of this newspaper article, which was widely circulated at the time: Beware of the Ragtime Germ. You certainly will get "dippy" if you become too fond of the syncopated melodies. "Alexander's Ragtime Band" is a public menace and it doesn't do to dance too many two-steps.

The authority for these statements is Ludwig Gruener of Berlin, a German alienist who has devoted twenty years' study to the criminal insane. List to what he says in an interview in Los Angeles, Cal.: Hysteria is the form of insanity that an abnormal love for ragtime seems to produce. It is as much a mental disease as acute mania—it has the same symptoms. When there is nothing done to check this form it produces idiocy.

Dr. Gruener says that 90 percent of the inmates of the American asylums he has visited are abnormally fond of ragtime. On the other hand, they fail to respond to classic music. Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata means nothing to them, while heavy doses of ragtime will sooth the nerves of a patient violent enough to be put in a straitjacket.

"Too much ragtime is a curse. It sets people off their mental hinges. Ragtime isn't music—it's a disease," is the doctor's opinion.

x Sap: a person who can't think.

xi God Gave You to Me: a 1915 song by Irving Berlin that was not widely popular. I have the sheet music but couldn't find any recordings online.

xii Marijuana (Cannabis) was available for medical treatment in the early years of the 20th Century in England and America. It was used as an analgesic and was prescribed for migraine, neuralgia and dysmenorrhoea. The preparations available were the alcoholic tincture and aqueous extract.

xiii Cocaine Hydrochloric: used as a local anesthetic, a mydriatic (pupil dilation drug), and cerebral stimulant.

xiv Codeine: a sedative in the treatment of coughs to lessen irritation in the respiratory tract. Of great value in calming the cough of tuberculosis.

xv Écoute-moi. Donne-moi tout de l'opium, de la cocaïne et de l'héroïne : Listen to me. Give me all the opium, cocaine and heroin.

xvi Dépêche-toi, cherie Hurry up, dear.